


Doornail

by trashbat



Category: Breaking Bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashbat/pseuds/trashbat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heisenberg's <i>A Christmas Carol</i></p><p>"This isn't the version I'm familiar with."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doornail

The idea that the mythical Heisenberg could find solace in something as common as an electronic cable guide would have seemed preposterous if Walt wasn't too exhausted to think. The programs available for his viewing pleasure floated in a vast spectrum of channels and genres. The guide was integral to make some sense of it all, compartmentalizing everything into neat blue rectangles with ratings and synopses at the ready for his discretion. There was even the option to peruse what was playing that morning, or as far as the next evening so future plans could be accommodated. A modern marvel. 

Walt recalled the Zenith console of his youth. Stately wooden behemoth of a thing. Walt Jr. didn't know how lucky he had it. Walt raised his snifter of brandy and swirled it around idly, reconsidering whether it were a lucky thing after all to grow up with everything so damn _available_. Regardless, he strived to give his son the best. And his daughter.

His other hand gripped the remote as if it were a handgun which, after hours of mindless channel surfing, seemed fused to his body. The inelegantly phallic item felt incongruous with the sleek television set that, in fact, required the operation of several different remote controls just to turn on. In some ways the antiquated dial was simpler. 

A fly buzzed lazily at his ear. Walt flinched at the brief, overwhelming sensation, gave the air a useless swat. "Strange. Christmas isn't for months," he muttered aloud in case Skyler was in the kitchen behind him. She wasn't. "A lot of Christmas movies on right now."

The familiar voice sounded from the adjacent chair, rich and condescending. "Why do you think that is, Walter?" The reply was disinterested. It seemed like an obligation to engage the conversation in order to arrive at some distant point.

"I... " This wasn't real. The take-out he'd eaten earlier gurgled, churning along its digestive tract. Walt took an assured sip to tamp it down. "Broadcasting companies must get these kind of features cheap at this time of year, it fills up space in the programming. Maybe people like to be reminded of Christmas all year round. It's some kind of corporate conspiracy. I don't know, it's idiotic." Walt ground his teeth in frustration, knocking back another drink to disguise the flush rising to his face.

"A lot of music that's popular today sounds like Christmas tunes to me. Shallow, tinny. Optimal brainwash material. The holiday's alright, but only for the sake of my granddaughter. Last year I put together one of those dollhouses for her, y'know the wooden models they sell in hobby shops."

"I can't picture it."

"Can't picture what."

"You... Sitting there at a desk under a lamp in the middle of the night, bifocals on. Meticulously putting together a... dollhouse, of all things. Painting it pink, arranging the furniture inside. It's absurd."

"To what am I better suited, Walter? Do enlighten me."

"You know what you're good at, Mike."

 _Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol_ was on. Puzzling. He watched the cartoon for a few minutes in silence. The other armchair squeaked as if there was something physical sitting on it. Walt glanced to his right, Mike's expression was drawn into a frown; the light from the television flickered in his glazed eyes.

"This isn't the version I'm familiar with."

"Dickens is the second most adapted author, rivaled only by Shakespeare. This story alone must account for at least half of those adaptations. A nice sentiment, sure, but it's been done to death."

"I guess now's as good a time as any to tell you why the hell I'm here," Mike sighed laboriously, eager to relinquish his role. The television shut off without anyone touching a button. "Got a message."

"What?" A grim chuckle escaped. "I'll be haunted by three spirits?" 

"Mmm. That's the general idea. These so called _spirits_ being folks you've killed. Limiting the number to three is pretty modest in my opinion, considering the grand magnitude of your blunders."

The ice clinking in its glass gave Walt away. He cleared his throat, tried to collect his nerves. "I-Is it too late to apologize? Mike. Because I rea-"

"Please. It was bad enough the first time."

The other armchair was sagging, suddenly empty. Walt topped off the brandy, overcome by fatigue. His head lolled against the upholstered back. In a moment he was asleep.

The glow and crackle of the screen woke Walt like a gentle nudge. 

Jane was draped across the other seat, in the same lazy sprawl Walt Jr. preferred when watching movies, in the exact spot. The young woman's gaze was fixed on the television, her sharp brow wrinkled in concentration. 

The shapes on the screen formed a blurry projection of herself and Jesse, laying side by side on his futon, lost in murmured discussion. 

Walt spoke first: "Your death. It was like... a glass, dropping. A fate that's preventable, certainly. But once the action is put into place the glass _will_ inevitably shatter."

"Preventable," she snorted. "That's funny." 

In the video Jesse rolled over, straddled Jane. The comforter slipped off his shoulders to reveal his bare back, Jane's chest and black hair underneath. Walt averted his eyes. He had seen too much.

"We never took any photos together. Too corny, posing ourselves like other people to preserve some memory... We wouldn't need to remember, we'd always be together. I guess," she relented with a shrug, raised an inodorous cigarette to her red lips, sucked in the specter of smoke. Jane was electric. It was as if the languid, blithe lover in the video never existed.

"If you never took pictures... Where did this come from?" Walt gestured blindly towards the source of soft moaning and warm light. He hoped Skyler wouldn't overhear, think he was watching some kind of insipid soft porn.

"One of the perks of being dead. Getting to relive the same memories. Same shit. Over and over. The good and the bad... Mostly it's all bad. You'll find out soon enough." She turned her full attention to her host. "It's always a big deal when a young person dies. Pretty sad, right? Bunch of kids, dressed to the nines lined up outside a funeral home can only mean one thing. But when it's your own fault, when you kill yourself, people can forget easier. Gives them permission to move on with their lives. Get over it; everyone did. Except Dad."

"I met him... He seemed nice. Normal. In spite of it all."

Jane smirked, and Walt read danger in the mere shake of her head, the silk of her hair. "Yeah, I bet you seemed normal. Once."

"No parent should live to see their child die."

"Weird. It's easy to forget your parent's an actual person, sometimes. In your mind, no matter how much you love them or hate them, they become like, this cipher. A source of money... annoyance, support. Or, y'know. Lack thereof. But they're in pain, no matter how much crap you get from them in the end they're just like you. You're an extension of their goddamn _body_." She looked away, down to her lap as if a sudden bout of shyness overtook her. She flicked the cigarette on her denim covered thigh and rubbed out the ashes, a stray habit from her time among the living. "I love my father."

Walt closed his eyes with the hope that he'd drift away, be released from the nightmare. The squeal of a cabinet door brought him back. Jane had moved to the floor in order to search through the movie storage unit under the television. The noise the studded bangles made when they shifted on her wrist was as quaint as a cat bell. 

" _Sesame Street_. Nice," she held out a colorful box for Walt to see before tossing it into an accumulating pile of plastic on the carpeted floor. "But I was looking for something more along the lines of... A-ha!" She blew dust off an unmarked tape, shoved it into the VCR. 

"Is this supposed to make me... Feel bad? Repent?" Walt threw his hands up in the air, livid. Onscreen Skyler appeared bashful in a white gown, rolling her eyes and smiling self-conciously as the shot consumed her. "My actions, every single choice I've made was justified. Everything, _everything_ I've done has been for my family. I refuse to apologize. I'm not going to grovel at the feet of some..." He threw the empty snifter to the ground amidst the pile Jane created. "...hallucination and compromise my self-respect, the success I've created out of nothing. Nothing! I did it!" 

Walt simply breathed for a moment, ran both palms across his scalp to collect cooling sweat. He watched the rest of the tape in silence. The outdated technology whirred as the faces of lost friends and family passed by, the callow, unrecognizable versions of himself and Skyler at the center of attention. 

He knew Jane was gone, vanquished by the broken glass. What played on the television was no ghoulish trick. He was alone, watching footage from his wedding reception. Walt slipped into unconsciousness somewhere around the cutting of the cake.

The next time Walt woke up it was to the strains of discordant piano and saxophone, garish even at its low volume. The living room was altered, lit only by a few dwindling candles on the low coffee table. Numb from sleeping curled around himself, he attempted to force some sensation back in his limbs but was restricted by the rustling mass at his feet and around his shoulders. He risked touching the darkness beyond his hand, picked up the crumpled remains of several pieces of paper.

"Are the candles too much? I don't know, I wanted the atmosphere to be sufficiently... spooky."

"They're fine. Bit of a fire hazard, with the paper," Walt swallowed a lump, maybe even a laugh. It was ridiculous; Gale was still patient for the opinion of his former mentor. 

"Walt, you hurt my feelings."

Though his visitor was immersed in the darkness, Walt heard a pained smile in the disembodied voice. 

Gale continued: " 'O you whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you; As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you; Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.' " When no response came Gale cleared his throat, breaking away from the recitation. "I'm pleased you held onto the book."

Walt found himself shaking his head in denial, vision blurred. "It's... I've always liked his work."

"As you should."

They sat for some time listening to the music. "Jazz," Walt realized, belatedly. There was some relief in the fact that he didn't have to see some unbearably corporeal representation of his former assistant. Finally Gale spoke.

"It would have been... favorable for my last vision to have been the face of my true executioner. But. To think, the harbinger of my end was..." The air altered, candlelight flickered. "That _hoodlum_ ," he spat. 

Walt seized in terror. The abrupt bitter intonation was a complete departure from Gale's halcyonic demeanor.

"You sent that child, that _coward_ to my doorstep. Why?!"

Walt clasped his hands as he measured the weight of a vast number of responses. Nothing could ever be adequate. "Gale," he risked, carefully. "It was the only way."

Gale sighed shakily, a practiced attempt to return to serenity. " _Your_ only way. Yes, I can appreciate that. It's flattering to think I'm, I'm a threat to anyone. At least enough of one to be shot, in the f-face," he managed, shaking sobs threatening to dissolve his speech. 

At once the room was ablaze. A split second of white-hot lightning revealed Gale with a hole burned between dead eyes, blood everywhere, skull fragmented, flayed for Walt to see the brain matter inside. The next instant the phantom flesh was restored and it was his horribly kind face peering at him. Tears tracked down his cheeks, glistening in the candlelight. 

"I loved you. You must of known that."

"Gale, you deserved," Walt paused in consideration, skin prickling at the pathetic display. "Better company. You're gifted. Incredibly so." 

" _Was_ gifted. But th-thank you. Can you believe, after all of this I still... I still respect you?" He was overcome by nervous laughter.

"I wish you wouldn't. It's below you." Walt brushed some of the paper off his shoulder, irritated at the sensation. Its texture was familiar. When he brought the item close for inspection, he stilled. Gale's laughter grew, he gathered a pile of it in his hands, wadded it together and threw it at his host. The pale C-Notes unraveled in Walt's lap.

"What do you have now, my dear? You have more money than I can concieve, more than... Ha, it 'balks account'! But what has it brought you?" 

Bills rained from the ceiling, falling featherlight on Walt's inert form. He shut his eyes against the barrage of Gale's increasingly distorted laughter. It only faded once Walt was completely smothered. He fell asleep under the pile, concern for the lit candles scratching at the back of his mind.

The money was gone when Walt surfaced. The television was turned on to an unconnected input, static blaring and washing the room out in light. His eyes struggled to adjust under lenses smeared with moisture as he scrambled for the remote. The mute function was activated before Walt could find it.

Walt breathed in, out. "I have to know. Why did you stay in the business? You already had so much, I mean a chain-restaraunt, Christ. It might of started out as a means to an end but that place was monstrously successful. Wasn't there a point where you wanted to say 'Enough!' and retire, find some peace?"

"You've already answered your own question. The empire business is a lifelong venture. If you and I have anything in common, and I shudder to think we do, we are selfish, and not in the same way everyone else is selfish." Gus was a sentinel, frozen behind Walt's seat. "I am not a cautionary tale."

"You must've known it would end. You must have known _I_ would end you." Walt felt the cushion behind his head being squeezed by two hands, subjugated in death.

"Your hubris still astounds me."

"Lydia..." Walt speculated, a sudden thought. He searched for molecular structures in the static as he awaited a reaction.

"I suppose you two deserve each other. She was... indispensable. Talented. Frigid, but love was never relevant to our association. Despite her eccentricities she knows discretion. Unlike you. _You_ seem determined to destroy her. that's fine. A much worse fate awaits you."

"Does it?" Walt flashed a shark's grin for the sake of no one. "Well, then don't you have anything to show me?" Walt gestured towards the television. "The future? Christmas yet to come?"

"No. Look into the void. Your course was cemented the instant you made the choice that brought you to this miserable state. You will die. Alone and unloved. This is not a story of redemption."

The static consumed them both.

\-----

Walt stirred, untangled himself from the armchair gracelessly. Morning light filtering in the quiet house compelled him to move on stiff legs towards the coffee pot. As he rummaged for the filters, Walt gave the frying pans a once-over. He paused, lost in a fantasy where Skyler woke up to an active kitchen, sat at the table with an expectant smile. That was it. 

Walt came to his senses, pulled a brown filter out of its box. 

Skyler did eventually appear, helpless to the draw of fresh coffee. She joined her husband in a silence that was nearly companionable, standing at the counter together gripping their matching oversized mugs.

She observed Walt over her drink, disguised by steam. He ignored the ghost of a puzzled expression on her face, wished her a good morning and left to take his turn in the bathroom. 

Released from her scrutiny, Walt took his time in front of the mirror, moving his jaw until the clicking went away. He turned on the tap, watched the water sputter into the clogged drain. He imagined a dollhouse for Holly. A pink one, for Christmas.


End file.
